Memories
by Dunedain789
Summary: When Gary 'Roach' Sanderson gets some time off with Ghost and Soap, he can't help but re-live the terrors and tragedy of a recent, botched mission.
1. Chapter 1

**Right oh! Hello! **

**Been a while since I've posted a story here. This is my attempt to capture a small glimpse of PTSD (or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) in a soldier. In this case... Sgnt. Gary 'Roach' Sanderson. Unfortunately the story refuses to write itself at the moment and I have other commitments, so I may or may not continue this... I'm certainly endeavoring to continue it. A huge thank you goes out to inspiration, information and beta-ing from my best mate. You know who you are.**

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><p>Clusters of bright orange leaves littered the stone pathway, trampled to pieces by the passage of hundreds of people going about their daily lives. The babble of the central city was at a high. A group of teenage girls trundled down the street; school uniform looking fashionably scraggly, skirts riding too high, shirts unbuttoned to expose the tops of their colorful bras. They giggled as they attracted the attention of a group of passing teenage boys, shouting sweet-nothings at them as they walked by, swinging their hips in an exaggerated manner.<p>

Three men lazed around a small table, sipping occasionally out of steaming white mugs. One of them watched the grey clouds above broodingly, his short-cropped brown hair ruffling lightly in the small breeze. He wore a green merino wool jumper and a pair of worn blue jeans that hung a little too loosely around his hips. While he tried to look as relaxed as his two friends, his hunched shoulders and clenched jaw suggested otherwise.

One of the men reached out, touching him lightly on the shoulder, causing him to jerk away as if he'd been electrocuted.

"Gary! Mate it's OK," he reassured the startled man.

"Yeah I know," muttered Gary, glancing up at his unconvinced friend with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Really Simon, I'm fine."

Simon gave Gary a worried look before shrugging and returning to his drink. He knew what Gary was thinking.

Simon's long, curly blonde hair was starting to brush the collar of his blue polo shirt. No doubt after their leave finished he'd have to cut it again. But, for now, he relished his scruffiness. The group of teenage girls walked past, one fluttering her mascara-laden eyes lashes at them while the others bust into a bout of giggles. Simon smirked at them and turned back to the other man.

"They never seem to change," he snickered, winking back at the girls, who blushed and fell into deeper hysterics.

"You shouldn't encourage them," replied the man, disinterestedly, blowing into his mug to cool the scalding drink.

Simon assumed a mock-affronted expression. "John! I'm shocked and deeply offended! Are you suggesting _I'm_ flirting with teenage girls?"

John prodded him in the ribs, causing Simon to flinch, "_That_ was a long time ago! And she was 21!"

"Touché," murmured Simon, picking up a few crumbs from the empty plate in front of him and stuffing them greedily into his mouth.

John smirked at Simon. "Hungry mate?"

"S'you who's such a tight arse with our rations. M'gonna get every last crumb I can!" he announced with a grin before picking up the plate with a grin and licking it clean, earning him a disgusted scoff from an elderly lady at the table next door.

John barked a laugh and aimed a kick at Simon from under the table. "It's damned near impossible to fill up that black hole you call a stomach."

Gary remained oblivious to the banter, his gaze having returned to the clouds that floated lazily past. He exhaled a little loudly, running a hand through his hair and over his eyes in an attempt to eradicate painful memories, which seemed to play in front of his eyes. The coffee grinder inside the tiny coffee shop whirled to life, crunching up the aromatic brown beans. Gary froze instantly, shoulder muscles tightening painfully and knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip around the hot china mug, familiar mental images dancing around him. Familiar sounds, smells, tastes. Memories he so desperately wanted to forget…

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><p><strong>Let me know how I did? I appreciate the time you take and the thought you make to write the reviews! =)<strong>

**All going well as well as enough support from readers and I'll have another chapter up once I'm happy with it!**

**Hope you enjoyed.**


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter is something akin to a flash back. Please read and review. If you don't review and give me a critique, I can't improve. And then no one's happy! Again a huge thanks to my mate for just being the most fantastic and supportive person, even when things are at their all time low (you know who you are).**

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><p><em>Sand grated across the metal barrel of the rifle as an attempt was made to brush the abrasive soil off the gun. Damn. He'd have to pull it apart and clean it again when they stopped for water and food. Stoppage could mean the difference between going home in a coffin or alive. If they were lucky enough to be sent home that was... And Gary was fairly certain that if you were dead, your luck had very much run out.<em>

_ He swiped absent-mindedly at the sweat that beaded across his forehead, dropping grains of sand into his eyes. He stifled a grumble and tried to ignore the fact that half the desert seemed to be residing in his shoes and pants._

_"Right you lot!"  
>Gary couldn't help the wry smirk that spread across his lips. Lieutenant Hamilton always started his briefs the same way.<em>

_"We're going to move to the north" he gestured vaguely in the direction with a hand, "to get to our objective. About 5ks out we're going to link up with Forrest and Carpet, who'll provide us with some covering fire while we're infiltrating the objective. Questions?"_

_The group remained silent, a few, like Gary, trying to brush the sand off their weapons with gloved hands._

_Hamilton beamed and clapped his hand together. "Excellent. Right! Rest up for the next 5 mins cause it's the last you'll get for a while! We've got some work to get done before the end of the day."_

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><p><em>"GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE!"<em>

_ Gary tumbled out of the truck, scrambling away from it a split second before it exploded, an RPG shattering the vehicle to shrapnel. The sounds of agonized screaming filled the air, as people were torn to pieces by bits of flying car. Bullets hissed over-head as Gary made an undignified clamber for a lump of sandstone jutting out of the ground a few meters away. He pressed his back against its jagged surface; the rain and sand had scooped out pieces of it over the years, like a gutted scallop shell. _

_Bullets thudded against the rock, sending tremors through it as Gary attempted to locate the rest of his team and get into a firing position, carefully keeping his head well below the edge of the rock. Where was the enemy? Where was his team? Disorientation, confusion, fear and desperation whirled through him as he tried to think through the panic that clawed at his throat and clouded his vision._

_"GARY! GET OVER HERE!"_

_Hamilton was taking cover behind the destroyed vehicle, shouting in an attempt to attract Gary's attention while staying out of range of the enemy._

_Indecision._

_ Should he run and risk getting shot? He exchanged a brief glance with Hamilton, a reckless bubble of exhilaration and pure white terror settling under his ribs as he made his decision._

_Determined, he pushed off from the pitted sandstone and sprinted to the unrecognizable carnage of twisted, blackened metal; ducking his head as bullets whistled through the air around him. Spraying sand, he threw his body into a tight turn around the edge of the wreck, hurtling to the ground, into cover. Sweat and sand stung his eyes, heart hammering at his ribs as he gasped for breath, hot air scalding his throat._

_He was alive… The thought was almost unreal and he immediately felt giddy, sharp gasps interrupted by high-pitched, staccato giggles of elation and terror._

_Hamilton almost smiled, clasping Gary's hand to help him get into a safer and better firing position. "Never seen anyone do something so stupid and get away with it."_

_Gary almost immediately sobered up, the adrenalin in his body demanding he focus. He glanced around, trying to get his bearings, a with a heart sinking realization, he murmured, "The others?"_

_"Dead. About." He shifted his rifle slightly, trying to see over the wreck without making his head a bobbing target. "Ambush party's covering just behind the ridge about 100 meters away," he gestured vaguely at their direction, "there's a machine gun but it's not a very big group. If we can creep up on them we'll be able to get out."_

_ Gary nodded his affirmation, also stealing a glance at the ridge, ducking his head back down as a bullet ricochet off the remains of the bonnet. He pointed and spoke hurriedly, "If we backtrack and head around to the left, we'll get cover from the sun and the rocks…"_

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><p><em>Gary roared a scream as he charged towards the small group of militia, firing a stream of bullets, face contorted in a feral snarl, bloodlust and determination hammering through him. A grenade hurled past him, landing in the middle of the group of surprised men. Confusion and terror sent them scattering. Those with enough sense to arm themselves were knocked to the ground as swarms of terrified soldiers. Gary immediately hit the deck, bruising his hips and ribs on the rocks that lay underneath him, covering his face instinctively as the grenade exploded showering him in scorching, coarse sand. Agonized screams filled the air, crimson blood turning to pink smoke, trailing a zephyr . A shadow and crunch of boots next to him told Gary that Hamilton was beside him. His lips thinned into a tight grimace as he fired in bursts at the fleeing patrol from a crouch,<em>

_Silence._

_Slowly, Gary lowered his rifle, eyes wide, bloodlust evaporating immediately, blind instinct and adrenalin replaced by nausea. Short, sharp breaths. The smell the stomach-turning stench of viscera clung to his throat. He swallowed convulsively, fighting the urge to throw up, legs wobbly, trembling uncontrollably as he surveyed the carnage. He'd done this… He bit back another wave of nausea. Some found the feeling of taking another's life empowering. Gary found it terrifying._

_"Fuck"_

_He turned away from the sight, to look at Hamilton, his face reflecting what Gary felt. Sickening horror._

_Gary gave a shrug, running a tongue over dry lips, stopping when he tasted the metallic tang of blood. He slunk past Hamilton. He wanted to get away. To not have to think about what he'd jus-_

_A piercing shot rang through the air and Gary spun, staring transfixed at where he had been standing a moment ago. It was a dangerous move, stopping in the middle of a gunfight, but the best training in the world can't separate a man from himself. Hamilton stood there, shock evident on his face, frozen, staring at Gary. He might have expected it, in some abstract, philosophical 'I have to get it at some stage' sort of way, but clearly the exhilaration of being fiercely alive, of dealing out death, had prevented any further contemplation. Later, Gary would have more than enough time for those thoughts. More than enough time for them both…_

_Blossom of death. _

_The blood and bone didn't even touch him. That was the stupid thing. Close enough to feel it, not close enough to be marked by it. Not physically._

_Time seemed to slow down; dangerously close to stopping altogether as Hamilton fell, legs crumpling under him. It looked like he'd taken a bad tackle. Injured, surely? A man clad in a red and white-checkered turban stood behind him, gun held at the hip... Then he didn't._

_Gary was the only one upright._

_He hadn't even been aware that he had shot the man. It had been so instinctive. Simply a reflex. _

_He staggered across the lumpy terrain, the only thought that pounded through him was his need to get to Hamilton. It tapped out in time to the pulse that hypnotic, thrumming pulse that rang through his ears. 'Not dead. Can't be dead. Hurt. Injured. Not dead'._


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello everyone! So there isn't much story progression here and I apologise for that! The plot bunnies are not a-leaping at the moment and unfortunately my upcoming exams ARE! So I'm focusing on them rather than poor characters! Again this story is very much in a flashback style as I cannot think of another way to write this with Gary reacting noises in the present and reliving the past. Perhaps one day I'll work it out!**

**Good grief the Call of Duty fandom has expanded a LOT since I was on here last! Congratulations everyone! Keep on writing! Lets push that number up to 2,000 stories!**

**R&R peoples!**

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><p><em>He grabbed his jacket, rolling him so he could breathe. A gurgled groan. Alive.<em>

_"Don't talk," muttered Gary, eying up the blood that blossomed across the chest of his DPMs. He yanked his own shirt off -popping buttons everywhere- and forced the bundle of cloth onto the wound. He gave a strangled cry which Gary quickly hushed. "Keep pressure on that. If we can stem the bleeding you'll be fine," he murmured, grabbing the radio off his CO, pressing the small transmission button and talking hurriedly into the microphone.  
>"Team Charlie 25 is down. This is sergeant Sanderson, repeat, team Charlie 25 is down. Requesting evac to co-ordinates two-zero-two-five-five. Emergency med evac required immediately, co-ordinates two-zero-two-five-five."<em>

_He waited the earpiece held to his ear, the other hand holding pressure firmly on the wound. He glanced down at Hamilton, a cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach when he noticed a spreading crimson stain crawling across the sand underneath his paling friend. He fixed the headpiece firmly to his ear, moving the pressure off the wound and repositioning it after he pulled Hamilton's own shirt off. He screwed up the material like he had before, blood staining his hands as he worked on shoving the screwed-up shirt under him. He inwardly cursed, the oversight having cost him precious minutes, adding his own weight to holding the wound closed in desperation, a stained finger pressed to the transmission button._

_"Charlie 25 is down! Require urgent med evac! Co-ordinated two-zero-two-five-five!" The calm that usually accompanied his radio calls evapourated, requests turning to pleas as he repeated himself into the radio._

_"Evac is en route Sanderson. ETA five minutes. Danger situation?"_

_"Dead and retreated."_

_"Personelle requiring medical attention?"_

_"One. Shot to the chest, Through and through. Massive blood loss. Require urgent medical assist."_

_"Hold tight"_

_Hamilton made another move to talk, a like of red forming in the crease of his lips. This time Gary didn't try to hush him._

_"Helen-"_

_"You're not going to die," he croaked out, resting his weight completely on his arms, hands pressed to the wound. Stem the blood. Pressure. Stem the blood. Hold please! "You can talk to Helen yourself when you get back," he whispered desperately. Hamilton shook his head._

_"Letter in bunk. Give it to her." A single tear fell, trailing his cheekbones before disappearing in a salty trail in the roots of blonde hair around his temples._

_He nodded, holding his friend as he died, the dusty sand kicked up by incoming rotor blades hardly even acknowledged, mixing into a brown sludge of blood which now oozed sluggishly out of the body, his heart pattering to an almost anticlimactic halt._

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><p>"SANDERSON!"<p>

Gary jumped, staring around wildly, eyes darting between John and Simon, both who were staring at the young man in alarm.

"What?" Gary snapped, trying to slow his racing heart.

John grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him upright while Simon removed the mug from his hands. "We're leaving," he said simply.

Leaving? Leaving where? It took a while for Gary to realize he was in London and not in a desert with a dying man. Not pressing his weight onto a chest wound which refused to stop leaking. He felt liquid trailing down his fingers and stared down at them, alarmed at the dark droplets that fell to his feet. Crimson, hot liquid.

"You broke the mug," murmured Simon, handing the waitress a ten pound note with an apologetic look, leading away the bemused man. A glance behind at the table proved this to be right. His mug was cracked and stained red.

"I didn't mean to," he whispered hoarsely, upset that such a thing could happen, watching his bleeding hands with surprise while he was led blindly through London.


End file.
